


With Quiet Strength

by Regole



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Cloti Fall Festival 2020, ClotiWeek, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regole/pseuds/Regole
Summary: Being one of the people who defeated Sephiroth doesn't protect a person from a more mundane form of life-threatening event. Tifa survives a hit-and-run incident, but not without consequences. As she tries to get back to her life, she can at least rely on the people closest to her to not hide things. Until she discovers they can . . . and do.Written for the CloTi Fall Festival 2020:Day 7 main prompt –Homecoming and New Life
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart & Barret Wallace, Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	With Quiet Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Although not to the same degree as my other Fall Festival piece, I did choose a sort of theme song for this: ["Never Fade Away" by Philipp Klein](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvyvYOnKfAI)
> 
> Written for the CloTi Fall Festival 2020:  
> Day 7 main prompt – Homecoming and New Life
> 
> Word Count: 7289
> 
> Crossposted on FFnet.

The first thing Tifa is aware of is pain. Muted but present, from head to foot. She forces her eyes open, blinking against too-bright daylight, and finally settles for a squint as her eyes water and mottle her vision. What little she’s seen—coupled with steady beeping somewhere behind her to her right and the stale crispness of the air that bespeaks sterility—lets her know she’s in a clinic or hospital. She tries to move but her limbs are leaden, and for a moment she’s frightened; she must accidentally make a noise, or maybe it’s just the way the speed of the beeping increases, because a second later something yellow and blue appears over her. Obviously a person’s head, from the shape, but with the tears still unshed in her eyes, the details are lost.

“Tifa?”

She blinks the water away, causing it run from the corners of her eyes. That allows her to focus on blond locks and cornflower irises, the latter tainted with green mostly around the pupil.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” a male voice, soft and soothing, says quickly. “Don’t move. You’re in the hospital.”

She blinks again, and flinches a little as a gloved hand makes gentle dabs at her eyes to dry them. Finally, she’s able to get a decent look at the person with her. Some of her anxiety fades, and the beeping behind her head slows a fraction. “Cloud?” she rasps, puzzled. He looks . . . different. Not the way she remembers. But it’s definitely him. What she’s asking for is an explanation as to the circumstances, but isn’t sure she has the energy to make that its own sentence—it’s much easier to just use Cloud’s name and hope he understands.

He seems to. “You lost a fight with a vehicle.”

Her brows draw in as she processes that. Then her eyes widen. “A v- _vehicle_?”

He nods, and in an effort to comfort strokes over her head with one hand. “It was a hit and run in the rain, but there were a few witnesses. An investigator is following up, and Barret’s taken a break from his work to watch the kids and stay on top of it for us. All you need to do is rest and heal. Now, do you need anything?”

Most definitely. “Water?”

He seems ready for that request. He turns aside to take a cup from a small table nearby, carefully spoons up a few chips of ice, and sets it aside before bracing her head as she raises it to take the ice. His hand feels huge. “The IVs are keeping you hydrated, so you just need a little something for your mouth and throat.”

As Tifa lets the ice melt on her tongue, someone knocks on the door. A smiling nurse invites herself in and begins checking the equipment around Tifa’s bed as she asks questions. Tifa can’t begin to answer any of them, but Cloud doesn’t wait for her to try, instead providing the nurse with as much information as he can. The nurse appears pleased by what she’s hearing. She promises to bring something to eat and leaves the room.

Cloud settles back, removes his gloves, and takes Tifa’s hand in his. He seems content to say nothing more to her, his attention on her hand as he cradles it gently in his left, the fingers of his right tracing feather-light patterns on the back of it.

So Tifa says, “When did you get so big?”

She can’t identify his initial expression or its immediate successor, they’re both there and gone so fast. He replaces them with a wry sort of chuckle and asks, “That depends. How big do you think I’m supposed to be?”

She hesitates as she considers it. “I . . . I guess . . .” Her brain is fuzzy, but she manages the math. “I guess you’d be about twenty-one now? But, I mean, I . . .” She doesn’t know what she wants to say and admits it.

“Try to relax,” he tells her. “Don’t force it. You’re injured, remember; your body’s mostly healed, but your head hit the curb, so you’re contending with a concussion. Let the words come to you instead of you trying to hunt them down. I’m not going anywhere.”

So she lets herself sink back into the hospital bed and closes her eyes. Eventually, the words do come to her as promised. “The last time I saw you, you were fourteen.”

“Okay,” he says. “That’s okay.”

The way he says it—tightly, as though he’s mentally bracing against something—worries her. “Are you . . . not twenty-one, then?”

“No,” he replies. “But don’t worry. You have a head injury. That you’re confused is normal.”

She accepts that, but isn’t reassured. In her gut, she knows that head injuries don’t _have_ to be accompanied by concussions and “confusion.”

By the time the nurse gets back with food, Tifa can tell she’s already managed to put her foot in her mouth; in search of something to say, she’d made note of the eerie glow in Cloud’s eyes and congratulated him for making SOLDIER. She’d _thought_ it was a safe topic, because that kind of glow is unique to SOLDIER—even people who end up with some enhancements because of a fall into a mako pool don’t have a glow that strong—but Cloud just shook his head and said with a hint of bitterness, “I never made SOLDIER.”

She wants to ask how he can have the hallmark of one, then, but the concussion didn’t destroy her sense of tact. It’s clear by the way he looks away from her and sort of collapses in on himself that he doesn’t want to discuss it, and Tifa isn’t so addled as to ignore that. She understands not wanting to talk about something and respects the boundary, even though she’s curious.

She’s terrified by the sudden realization that she’ll have to be the one to tell him about Nibelheim—about how Sephiroth murdered his mother and set the entire village ablaze. As much as she might want to hope he knows already, she can’t just assume it; she _has_ to broach the subject herself, and be ready to console him.

* * *

“If you’ll step out, Mister Strife.”

It’s probably a good thing Tifa’s bed is between them, given the way Cloud bristles at the command. He swells like an enraged dragon, and Tifa’s both awed and even a touch frightened by the change; she was peripherally aware of the musculature he hadn’t had when he left Nibelheim at fourteen, but until that moment the muscles had lain flat. Dormant. Present and attractive, but not threatening. That changed in an instant.

“ _Why_?”

The boldness of his demand distracts Tifa, who feels her cheeks heat. The nurse has already let down some screens in the windows, so _clearly_ she wants him to leave because Tifa’s going to be naked or partially so. She’s not sure whether Cloud’s just oblivious to that or trying to justify perversion. The former is more the Cloud she knows, but the Cloud before her isn’t necessarily that Cloud anymore. “Cloud . . .”

He looks to her immediately, and some of the tension drains from him. His eyes, darkened with aggression and somehow glowing more than usual so that they’re less blue and more greenish, lighten back to something closer to the blue she knows and, honestly, takes comfort in. “Do _you_ want me to leave, Tifa?”

A bit of her anxiety unwinds. He isn’t trying to intimidate her, merely emphasizing that whatever she wants is more important to him than what the nurse wants. He won’t argue with her.

She nods. “Please.”

Just like that, Cloud rises—leaning forward as he stands to kiss her temple and give her hand a reassuring squeeze—and exits the room without further protest, nodding to the doctor as the latter enters.

The nurse is equal parts startled and irritated, but as she turns to Tifa covers it up with a cheery, “Goodness, he’s so protective of you! I wish I had a man like that.”

Tifa watches the door close on Cloud, who’s positioned himself right by the doorway and is leaning against the wall, arms folded. The milky window in the door means they won’t be able to see each other, but she still feels a measure of relief just knowing he’s close enough to hear her if she calls. At the same time, she’s a bit glad he’s out of the room, because he _kissed her_ and she doesn’t know what to think about that. Sure, it was just on the head, but he did it so _easily_ ; he would _never_ have done something like that at fourteen, or if he had, he would’ve spent a lot of time hesitating first.

The doctor examines her while the nurse alternately assists him and does things like exchange a few of the variety of bags around the bed. Tifa answers his questions the best she can.

“I’m not sure what all’s going on, though,” she says at one point. “Cloud said I was hit by a vehicle? And my head hit the curb?”

The doctor nods. “You do have a little swelling in your brain, which has been known to affect memory, so for now you shouldn’t worry much about what you can and can’t remember—what’s more important is not taking another hit to the head. Your body has mostly healed, which means you can go home in the next day or so as long as you don’t have any further problems, but another head injury could have severe consequences.”

That isn’t reassuring.

“Shouldn’t I stay here, then?” she asks.

The doctor shakes his head. “We can’t really protect you from another head injury here any more than you could protect yourself at home, and being at home might— _might_ —help with your memories.”

“A-All right . . .” Tifa says, hesitant. Maybe the hospital can’t protect her more, but she’s far less likely to get another head injury there given that she runs a bar. She can ask Avalanche for help, though. She’d like to think she can lean on Cloud, too, but as far as she’s aware he’s appeared out of the blue; he says he’s not SOLDIER but he obviously has the eyes of one, and as much as she wants to believe she can trust his discretion, she doesn’t know what’s really going on with him.

Maybe Barret will.

When the doctor is done, he steps out of the room to speak to Cloud. Tifa doesn’t necessarily mind because it _is_ Cloud, but she wonders why the doctor would discuss _her_ private health information with him. Fortunately, Cloud gets his boot heel positioned in such a manner as to prevent the door from closing, so she’s able to hear some of what they’re talking about.

“—still hasn’t changed,” the doctor is saying, “so it’s safe to say her brain remains swollen. It doesn’t mean she can’t go home, just that the risk is as severe as it was two days ago.”

Cloud says something in a voice too low for Tifa to make out.

“Anterograde amnesia relates to the events that occur after an incident,” the doctor replies. “What you’re describing is retrograde amnesia. Both forms are common and it is possible to have both simultaneously, yes. And if the amnesia is related to the swelling rather than emotional trauma, which is likely if her psychological constitution is otherwise stable, there’s a good chance it will pass.”

Cloud says something else, but again, it’s too quiet for Tifa to hear properly.

“I understand why you might think that, but I assure you lack of awareness isn’t amnesia,” the doctor says. “Mako poisoning, to the best of the understanding of medical science, is a state of catatonia much closer to a coma than to amnesia. As long as your memories following the poisoning are ones you can recall, however uncertain and unreliable, you either didn’t experience anterograde amnesia or it was brief. She’s presenting with symptoms typical of anterograde amnesia. _You_ , I suspect, had or have extensive retrograde amnesia, and only that.”

Tifa’s heart seems to squeeze and give a labored, thudding beat of concern upon hearing that. If Cloud suffered mako poisoning in the past, that would definitely explain his eyes, though she’s never heard of a survivor having eyes as bright as his. In fact, Cloud would be one of fewer than ten individuals who managed to fight it off in the decades since the introduction of mako power increased the risk of encountering it; those who were particularly sensitive died within a day or week, while most died after lying unresponsive for months or years.

She studies Cloud’s profile through the gap in the door and reconsiders her interactions with him. Besides his eyes, she wouldn’t have guessed he’d ever experienced mako poisoning. He’s in amazing shape. Literally every other survivor was known to have wasted practically to nothing, even with physical therapy, while Cloud not only _isn’t_ wasted but is _built_. That was why she mistook him for a SOLDIER, because only SOLDIER get pumped full of mako and don’t end up with severe muscular atrophy—it’s a delicate balance only Shin-Ra has been able to manage, probably because of the amount of money that must be involved.

Soon enough, Cloud nods and thanks the doctor, then uses the foot he put in the door to bump it open to let him turn on the spot and reenter the room. It’s a show-off move Tifa’s not sure he could have done without mako enhancements, depending on the weight of the door. He shoots a quick glower at the nurse, who’s leaving—clearly, his capacity for holding a grudge hasn’t gotten smaller with time—but says nothing and just sits beside Tifa again. She watches his muscles smooth out as he relaxes a little.

“ _Tifa_.”

She starts and focuses on him. “Yes?”

He looks concerned. “You okay?”

“Of course!”

He doesn’t seem convinced. “You were pretty deep in your own head, then.”

“I overhead a little of what you and the doctor were talking about,” she says. “By the way, why would he discuss my condition with you?”

Cloud rolls his eyes a little. “I told them we were married and they took me at my word. The security here is terrible.” He frowns, and his gaze is earnest when he adds, “I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business, but you were unconscious. The patrol that responded to the incident called the bar, and since I have a better idea of your medical history than most I thought it would be all right.”

“Oh.” It makes sense, and Tifa doesn’t mind much; even if there are some things she can’t trust Cloud with anymore, her health may be the one thing she knows she can safely put in his hands at any time. She smiles. “It’s fine—you probably do know the most about my medical history.” She’s mostly certain, at least, that she hasn’t told anyone else about her fall when she was eight, and while she’s surely healed from that, maybe it would be important for a doctor to know.

“I guess I had to tell you at some point,” he muses as he absently picks up the ice cup and uses the spoon to play with the melting chips inside. “They might mention your husband, and you should know they mean me.”

“Yeah, that would be surprising,” she says, imagining the panic she would’ve felt without the warning. Not that being married to Cloud would have been a problem—not at all—but she has no memory of it, and _that_ would have scared the daylights out of her.

After a moment, she continues with, “So, uh . . . you and the doctor were talking about amnesia . . .?”

“The doctor didn’t tell you?”

“Well, he did mention memory problems, but he didn’t go into detail.”

Cloud nods. “You’ve been having memory trouble the last few days. Not just thinking I’m twenty-one, but not remembering things that have happened since the incident. I’d never heard of it, but it’s called anterograde amnesia. It means there’s damage, or at least pressure affecting memory retention, in certain areas of the brain. In itself, it’s more an inconvenience than anything, but it indicates there are other problems that could be dangerous, and that’s why you’ve been in the hospital since the incident. But there are signs you’re healing, so the doctor’s been considering letting you go home.”

Tifa feels cold. “The last few _days_? I . . . woke up before today?”

She remembers nothing of that.

Cloud sets the ice cup aside and reaches out, placing his hand atop her clasped ones. She yanks them back from him, only to clamp both around his to clutch it and ground herself. He gives her a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve been waking up the past four days. I know that seems terrifying, but please trust me when I say you’re better every day. Don’t let what you can’t remember yet overshadow the things you _do_ remember.”

“Like _what_?” she demands, panicked.

“You still remember being part of Avalanche, right?” he asks. When she nods, he says, “That’s one thing you got back. The first day you woke up, you thought you were fifteen and Sephiroth had just burned Nibelheim.”

It’s something. It’s also a relief that Cloud apparently knows what happened to Nibelheim as well as about Avalanche, relieving her of the burden of having to find a way to tell him of either. Under the circumstances, she isn’t sure she can hide anything from him.

Still, she doesn’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t seem to be worried about getting it back.

They sit in silence for much of the day, the hospital bustling beyond the closed door. Cloud is serene, and Tifa feeds desperately on that, hoping to control her anxiety.

“You know, you can watch television or something,” he says finally. “You don’t have to sit there and listen to me breathe.”

Before Tifa can explain that Cloud’s breathing is helping her manage her own, a PHS rings. Cloud contorts, reaching to his left side with his right hand. Tifa lets go of his left hand, but he doesn’t let go of her, apparently accepting that he’s going to give himself some sort of muscular cramp. Somehow, he manages to fish the device from his pocket. It’s much easier for him to flick it open with his thumb and raise it to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, then listens. Tifa can’t tell who might be calling, he has the volume turned down so much. “. . . Yeah, she’s better today. The doctor said she can go home tomorrow as long as nothing changes between now and then.” More listening. “. . . Sure.”

Cloud offers his PHS to Tifa and says simply, “Barret.”

It’s a relief and comfort to hear Barret’s voice. Like Cloud, he’s a grounding force for her, though much louder than Cloud has ever been. And between Cloud’s touch and Barret’s voice, Tifa is able to calm down and focus on the moment. After a brief conversation about nothing of importance, Barret hands whatever device he’s using to Marlene, who definitely doesn’t sound like she’s four years old anymore.

“Are you really coming back tomorrow?” she asks.

“I hope so, yes,” Tifa answers, not willing to make promises when it seems like she’s balanced on a razor’s edge of healing. “Then we’ll be able to spend more time together, okay?”

“Okay! Do you want to talk to Denzel?”

Tifa’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She doesn’t know who Denzel is—has never heard the name before. She jumps when Cloud, wide-eyed with alarm, snatches the phone from her and brings it back to himself. “Marlene? Tifa can’t talk to Denzel right now—the doctor just came in. Would you tell him we’re sorry, and that if Tifa and I can’t be home tomorrow we’ll call to talk to him? . . . Thanks.” He snaps the phone closed and lets out a long breath, as though he’s just dodged a bullet of some kind.

Tifa frowns. _No one_ just came into the room, let alone the doctor. “Who’s Denzel?”

Cloud grimaces. “He’s . . . sort of our kid? It’s a long story, but suffice it to say that he was an orphan and sick with a disease; I found him, and you told me to bring him back to the bar. We took care of him—especially you and Marlene. He was healed, eventually, but with the way things are these days, he didn’t have anywhere safe to go, so he just stayed with us. We’re registered as his guardians.”

Tifa is stunned. “I’m . . . a mother?”

It’s been years since she gave thought to that possibility. Of course, as a little girl she had all the feminine urges to nurture, and while it settled with age it never completely disappeared, so she just sort of tucked it away to fantasize about when she was alone. She’d never really been able to seriously consider being with anyone but Cloud; any potential suitors had been compared and found lacking in some way. It’s not that she thinks Cloud’s perfect, but she hasn’t met a man who also embodies all of her preferred qualities the way Cloud does. Maybe one or two, but no more than that. Unable to find Cloud after Nibelheim, she’d almost given him up for dead, and with that increasing resignation had gone any immediate interest in children. So the idea of being a mother isn’t unwelcome, but it’s still very startling. Especially adoption. That’s something she _really_ never thought about, being too much a romantic to think of having children who weren’t biological.

“He doesn’t _call_ you that, no. But technically, yeah.”

She isn’t sure what to think. “Am I . . . good at it?”

Cloud looks uncertain. After a minute, he says, “Well, he tried to take on a summon barehanded to protect you while you were stunned by the concussion from its flare attack. I don’t think a nine-year-old would do that for just anyone.”

She’s not convinced. “You seem so sure.”

“It’s not you,” he says quickly. “It’s just that if you’re his mother then I’m his father, and . . .” He doesn’t finish, but his expression is perhaps best described as “overwhelmed.”

Tifa tilts her head. “Why the face? I bet you’re great at it.”

Cloud gives her a bit of a side eye, but another nurse knocks and comes in carrying what looks like a menu, so he doesn’t argue.

* * *

Tifa wakes up the next morning. She remembers Cloud saying she _wasn’t_ remembering waking up before. But now she is; she remembers the previous day, as well as being terrified of falling asleep even as she succumbed to exhaustion, frightened that she’d forget again. Cloud stayed beside her, though, a fixed point in the storm of her fear, and promised he’d be there when she awakened, no matter what. He is.

She cries.

After calming a distressed Cloud, who was sleeping slumped at an awkward angle in the chair beside her bed and has no idea why she’s crying, she looks at the clothes Cloud laid out for her. Because as soon as the doctor says she can, she’s going home.

The doctor does say she can. Tifa doesn’t dislike the hospital or staff, but with the permission is suddenly itching to leave. She sends Cloud out of the room so she can get dressed, and while he obeys without a fight, the pout he’s wearing is so . . . It makes him look like he’s ten again. It’s killing the nurse, who’s there to turn off the equipment and help Tifa get untangled from the tubes and pull out the needles.

“How do you resist that?!” the woman cackles once the door is shut.

“Oh, he’s always been like that,” Tifa muses as she studies the rings the nurse had given her—one a wolf’s head and the other a simple band in a beautiful metallic-blue shade that reminds her somewhat of Cloud’s eyes. The wolf’s head more or less matches her drop earrings, being a silver color as well, though her earrings are polished to shine. “I suppose I’m just desensitized.”

Tifa doesn’t remember her body condition immediately prior to her hospital stay, but her body does; she’s stiff and sore, in desperate need of some stretching. As she steps out into the hall, Cloud unintentionally confirms that assessment, his hands rising a little as if to catch her before he controls the urge.

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods. “Ready. Just, uh, take your time.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Do you want to stretch or something?”

She looks around. “Is there someplace?”

“Dunno,” he says. “You usually just use me if you have a sudden need.”

Tifa feels her face heat. “Use _you_? Why?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes I get the impression it’s foreplay.”

The heat becomes a burn, and Tifa bites her tongue, struggling against the ludicrously powerful urge to ask whether it works. She succeeds, but Cloud’s expression is muted smugness, as though he knows exactly what she’s thinking anyway.

She turns and marches away—slow and stiff, but determined.

“Tifa,” he calls after her. When she looks back over her shoulder, she finds he hasn’t moved. He’s pointing in the opposite direction. “It’s this way.”

* * *

At first, Tifa is a bit annoyed to discover Cloud planned their departure in advance. Rather than heading straight to Seventh Heaven, he insists they go to the hospital roof so she can get a look at the city. He’s explained to her that they’re actually in Edge and Midgar is uninhabitable, and while she accepts that she isn’t certain it’s that big a deal. She really just wants to go home and take a nap.

The view from the hospital roof is . . . a shock. Tifa’s hands find one of Cloud’s, and she leans into his arm as she stares at the twisted corpse of what most believed was the most amazing place on the planet, regardless of any personal feelings about Shin-Ra Company or anyone within. Even the people of the slums were generally proud to say they lived in Midgar, despite the neglect they endured.

Cloud gives a very brief, very clinical explanation of Avalanche bombing a couple of the reactors, Shin-Ra responding by murdering tens of thousands of people both over- and underplate in Sector Seven, and an insanely powerful destructive magic contained inside a black materia. He concludes by nodding at the wreckage of the city and saying, “That’s what’s left of it.”

Tifa can’t imagine Seventh Heaven being anywhere but Sector Seven. “Then where’s the bar?”

“Here in Edge. Most of Midgar’s survivors moved here too. I’ll get you there, don’t worry.”

As they move slowly back through the crowded halls inside, Cloud takes her hand. It’s a strange hold, sort of like he cages his fingers around it in the approximation of a handhold but doesn’t actually _grip_ her. She wonders whether it’s him being cautious with his strength or just concerned that she’ll think he’s being too forward. In any case, he apparently does it so they aren’t separated, though it’s not much of an issue since everyone—even hospital staff—gives way to him. He’s polite about it, constantly asking to be excused for their status as a mobile roadblock, but doesn’t try to hurry her.

By the time they get to the parking garage, Tifa’s body has done a lot of limbering up. She still feels some twinges, but they indicate less of a need for work than she would have said when she was just leaving her hospital room. She balks when she sees the monster Cloud’s led her to, and his odd hold means her hands slips out of his quickly. He doesn’t try to get it back.

“You have a motorcycle,” she says, not sure whether she wants to be on it in her condition. It’s certainly unique, though—she’s never seen anything like it. It’s gargantuan, and clearly something that someone unenhanced has no chance of actually controlling.

“It’s cool,” he asserts, but sounds a bit petulant, like a teenager who’s trying to be impressive but realizes he’s failing miserably and is desperate to retain some dignity.

“Don’t I have a head injury?”

Cloud’s entire demeanor changes. He’s earnest when he says, “I won’t let anything happen to you, Tifa, I promise. I’ll go slowly and stay off the highways.”

He has a helmet for her. And a soft neck brace of some kind. And a leather jacket. And gloves. And knee pads. A couple of the items seem a little too small, like they’re for Marlene or the Denzel kid, but what’s weirder is that she doesn’t know how he fit them on his bike in the first place; there doesn’t appear to be any room for storage even though there’s apparently plenty.

In any case, Tifa finds out that when Cloud said “go slowly” he meant from _his_ perspective, because they definitely go a lot faster than _she_ expected. Or wanted, frankly. But she can’t deny that Cloud knows exactly what he’s doing and has the motorcycle under control at all times, even when he does things so wild they’re probably illegal. Though she’s scared, it’s low-key—she has faith in him.

Also, feeling his body flex in front of her confirms that his muscles aren’t only in his arms, which provides a suitable distraction from most of what he’s doing on the road.

* * *

Tifa stares.

“It’s . . . a box.”

A box set between and attached to a few other boxes. She wonders if the walls are thick enough to control the volume of Seventh Heaven’s drunk patrons, or whether the neighbors hate her but don’t dare say anything to her because of Cloud and Barret.

Cloud, who’s been bracing the motorcycle and waiting patiently for her to hop off, looks over his shoulder. “Well, gee, Tifa, no need to be so blunt about its flaws.”

Without thinking, she swats his shoulder. She freezes, waiting for him to snap at her or give her a wounded look—options which the Cloud of her memories would have chosen from. Instead, he snorts.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she uses him to steady herself. The motorcycle has no passenger footpegs, and she can tell by the heat rolling across her legs that she doesn’t want them to skim the engine or exhaust or whatever part is right there, so getting down is a bit of a production.

Cloud’s expression is absolutely blank. “What for?”

“I _hit_ you.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t really feel it.” He adds, “You didn’t mean it—I can tell by how hard you hit.”

“Still, I—”

“Tifa,” he soothes, his eyes gentle and the hand he rests on her shoulder light, “it’s okay. You’re going to have to put in a lot more effort than that to hurt me.”

Tifa isn’t comfortable going into the foreign Seventh Heaven by herself, so she loiters beside the bike while Cloud puts the kickstand down and dismounts.

“You can take all of that off now,” he says, gesturing to the gear she’s wearing.

So she does, glad to be rid of those slightly too small articles that have been digging into her. Cloud takes them from her and makes them vanish into compartments Tifa would have never guessed were there had she not just seen them with her own eyes.

When he closes the last compartment, he turns to her. “Ready?”

She isn’t, but she nods anyway. Cloud takes her hand in the same odd cage-like hold he used in the hospital and leads her to the door. There, he looks at her again, his free hand on the lever.

“This is home,” he says. “ _Your_ home. You’re safe here. Okay?”

She nods again, and means it more that time. He opens the door for them and gives her hand a light tug to instruct her to go in ahead of him. She’s comforted to feel him right behind her, and it gives her the confidence to study the interior of the new bar as well as those who are apparently waiting for her, given the decorations.

“Tifa!”

Tifa bends slightly and opens her arms to allow Marlene to hug her; she recognizes the girl immediately but is surprised by how big she is. Tifa pushes it down to give her an enthusiastic squeeze. “ _Oh_ , I missed you!”

“I missed you too!” Marlene then draws back to look her in the eyes. “I’m glad you’re home!”

Tifa smiles. “Not more than I am.” She winks and stage-whispers, “Thanks for being here for me.”

Barret greets her next, and Tifa relaxes into the bear hug.

“Heya, girl. You feelin’ all right now?”

She smiles up at him, a bit pained. Barret is different too. It’s not a _bad_ different, but enough to make her feel disoriented. “Well, at least a little.”

“It’ll get better,” he promises, and pats her shoulder before stepping back. “Just be patient.”

Her attention is drawn to Cloud again—as it seems it always is—and then drops downward a little. In front of Cloud, apparently leaning back against him a bit, is a boy with wavy brown hair and clear blue eyes. Somehow—in some way she can’t quite put into words—he reminds her of Cloud at the same age. It makes her smile.

“Denzel,” she says by way of greeting.

“You don’t remember me,” he replies. Not accusing, just quiet. Accepting. “It’s okay.”

It comes to Tifa then—“little man.” After Cloud’s father died, one of the adults in town—his own mother had known better—made the mistake of telling six-year-old Cloud that he was “the man of the house.” Cloud was never the same after that; he did his best to help his mother, and he accompanied Nibelheim’s best trapper to learn where and how to hunt. While Tifa and the other kids in the village had the luxury of play after they finished minor chores like cleaning their bedrooms and setting or clearing the dining table, Cloud was out at the edge of town with grumpy old Mister Werner, learning about and training with chocobos, and borrowing teams to haul trees home for firewood. Even when Cloud found himself with free time he never once relaxed, always with one ear tuned to listen for his mother’s voice, ready to quit any game he was playing to find out what she needed. The other kids found him boring and annoying as a result, and eventually refused to play with him.

Denzel has the same look about him—a little boy forced to grow up too soon.

Tifa kneels on the alcohol-stained wood floor and gently clasps his arms. “I don’t,” she admits, and finds a smile for him, “and the loss is mine. But I want to get to know you again. So you go ahead and treat me like always, all right? I’ll adapt to you.”

He’s a little hesitant, but nods, and Tifa sees a flash of a normal little boy in his eyes.

* * *

For the first two nights at Seventh Heaven, Tifa is still terrified that if she goes to sleep she’ll wake up and have forgotten everything, so she refuses to sleep alone in the room Cloud tells her is hers. She might need someone there whom she recognizes to assure her that waking up in a foreign building doesn’t mean she’s been abducted. But she isn’t sure whether she wants it to be Barret, whom she feels less awkward around, or Cloud, whom she’s known for longer than she’s known anyone else still alive.

“That’s not how it works, Tifa,” Cloud tries to soothe. “When I said you were forgetting, I meant you were forgetting throughout the day. You aren’t forgetting now, so I really don’t think you’ll forget just by sleeping.”

She shakes her head, too anxious to actually speak for the moment.

Cloud, ever accommodating, says, “Okay, well . . .” His gazes drifts as he thinks, then slides back to her. “There’s a bed in my office. It’s not big enough for Barret, so I might as well sleep there.”

This is apparently a surprise to Barret, whose head snaps around. “Hey, now wait just a second, Strife! Is that why you told me to—”

Cloud turns away and waves dismissively over his shoulder as he heads for the staircase that leads up to the bedrooms and his office. “Night.”

Barret scowls after him, and once he’s out of sight turns to Tifa, full of concern. “Is that all right with you? He shouldn’t have made the decision himself. If you’d rather him be with you, I understand—I’ll drag his narrow little ass back down here for you. The bed in his office ain’t that damn small.”

Tifa smiles and shakes her head. “It’s fine. It just needs to be someone I’ll recognize. Just in case.”

Barret looks uncertain, but doesn’t argue.

As the days pass and her memory holds, Tifa feels more confident being alone. She finds the children to be the best company—Marlene just for being herself, and Denzel because he does as Tifa told him; he pretends nothing has changed unless Tifa asks him to clarify something. He’s a breath of the freshest air after Barret and Cloud, who are both walking on eggshells around her. Barret’s the worst of the pair, hovering and constantly questioning her comfort level, though only because Cloud is doing what Cloud always does when he’s anxious—he retreats and just . . . watches. He gets increasingly surly as Barret harasses him about his distance, but Tifa is aware that when she leaves the bar with Marlene and Denzel for a little food shopping, Cloud is the one tailing them, making sure they’re safe but not insisting they acknowledge his presence since he wasn’t invited along.

He’s always been like that.

She eventually meets other people whom she used to know but can’t remember anymore: Reeve, formerly a Shin-Ra executive, risen to leadership with its replacement—the WRO—who’s apparently some sort of puppeteer as well; Cid, a chain-smoking and foul-mouthed airship designer and pilot who was at last able to fulfill his dream of spaceflight; Vincent, a sharpshooting former Shin-Ra Turk who’d been experimented on by someone affiliated with the company, and as a result is like a SOLDIER but also not; Yuffie, an effusive Wutaiese princess who has a habit of making off with others’ materia, though Cloud explains this tendency is much reduced since Shin-Ra’s collapse; and then Nanaki, a beautiful red not-quite-a-cat, not-quite-a-dog with a real flame at the end of his tail and who can not only speak, but do so with astounding eloquence for someone who’s apparently only about twenty years old by the measure of his own people.

“Aerith . . .” Yuffie sighs. Visibly serious for the first time Tifa’s noticed, she says, “Aerith didn’t make it. Sephiroth murdered her. But she was already with you and Cloud and Barret and Nanaki when you left Midgar. She was a half-Cetra—could speak to the planet and stuff.”

Tifa can’t explain why, but hearing that makes her heart hurt.

* * *

Tifa is very glad Yuffie decides to stay at Seventh Heaven a while when Barret leaves to go back to work and takes the kids with him to give them a sort of vacation. Cloud had been quietly nervous about leaving her alone, even though they’d agreed Tifa would be just fine as long as he didn’t take any overnight deliveries and came back early enough to help run the bar, so he could be sure to be there in case Tifa really did forget. Yuffie inviting herself to keep Tifa company during the day makes it easier for Cloud to leave in the mornings, secure in the knowledge that someone he trusts is there. She also reminds Tifa a little bit of Jessie.

That mostly helps, but it hurts, too. Tifa misses Jessie and Biggs and Wedge, and working again in the bar only makes the hurt worse.

One great thing about Yuffie is that she’s pretty well-suited to working a bar. She has trouble getting the drink mixes right, but everyone does at first; where she shines is in her resilient attitude—her self-confidence and sass protect her from drunken slurs and abusive demands. Yuffie takes shit from no one, and on the one occasion she gets overwhelmed because there are three people harassing her all at the same time, she stops trying to serve them and commands Cloud to kick them out. And Cloud—who probably overheard everything but didn’t involve himself because his habit was to wait to be noticed—did exactly as she wanted, no questions asked.

He did, however, make a comment to the effect of her being able to handle them herself.

Tifa feels a little cowardly, keeping to the kitchen the way she does, but listening to Yuffie and Cloud deal with patrons reminds her that she’s not in the right headspace to be out front. When she brings food out she’ll smile and wave, and thank anyone who’s aware of her situation and wishes her a speedy recovery, but return to the kitchen without engaging too deeply. So she’s a bit startled when one man—who seems to think he’s pretty suave, based on his clothes and hair style—offers her a flower. A vibrant red chrysanthemum.

“For you, beautiful lady,” he says, and gives a sort of smug smile.

Tifa is less impressed than awkward. “Oh . . . Uh, thank you.” It comes out as slightly more of a question than a statement.

The man’s gaze drifts to Tifa’s left, and although it’s slight, he visibly quails. “Hey, it’s just a flower, man. You don’t have to get possessive.”

Tifa turns to find Cloud has paused in his washing of used glasses and dishware to stare the man down. He has moments of goofiness, but Cloud is usually extremely serious—has been since his father died, according to his mother. So she’s not surprised the target of his look is very intimidated, especially given that Cloud has the muscle to back up his expression.

“A flower is fine,” Cloud replies, and returns to washing dishes about three seconds before he actually lets his attention fall to his hands again.

Tifa doesn’t really know what to make of that. It seems like Cloud is . . . jealous. But it’s not that she thinks Cloud doesn’t _get_ jealous, just that he’s never confronted anyone about it, that she can recall. Perhaps it’s one of those things about him that’s appeared in the time they’ve been apart.

Yuffie elbows him in the flank, hard enough to make him scowl, and demands in a stage-whisper, “You let guys give her flowers?!”

Cloud pauses to glare at her. “Why shouldn’t she get flowers if she wants them?”

Yuffie draws her head back to squint at him, suspicious. She then says at a normal volume, “No way. You don’t really . . .” Cloud glares harder. She guffaws and swats his shoulder before turning away to go into the kitchen with her tray. “You _do_! You _let them_?! You’re so sad, Cloud Strife!”

Cloud scoops some of the dishwater—which has to be filthy—in his hand and pivots as he swings his arm, slashing the soapy fluid through the air and into Yuffie’s back.

The ninja lets out a shriek that can surely be heard through the ages.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I did some research on amnesia. But I'm not an expert. I'm pretty sure I'm mixing up some traits of retrograde and anterograde amnesia to get something convenient. Just FYI and don't mind it, please—I appreciate it.


End file.
